At Angelo's
by O'Donnell
Summary: Italian restaurateur Angelo Grimald is one of Sherlock Holmes's oldest and most trusted friends. This is their story


At Angelo's

Italian restaurateur Angelo Grimaldi is one of Sherlock Holmes's oldest and most trusted friends. Here is their story

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Funny how the simplest things lead to other things and end up saving a life. Smoking a cheroot out of a bedroom window at 2.30am on a Monday morning was the thing that kicked it all off. It had been a god-awful week, and trying to balance the books after a hectic weekend just wasn't working.

He was tired, stressed, annoyed and half way to being defeated by the bills, the alimony payments, the staff schedules, the ordering. He was starting to think this restaurant idea wasn't going to succeed after all. So he had finally abandoned all the paperwork he could not make sense of, dumped it all on the table and come up to bed with a half tumbler of brandy and a rare cheroot.

Make himself feel better and self indulgent and begin to start to relax, he decided. Then get a good night's sleep, do the paperwork with a fresh mind and start the new week. Well, that was the theory.

So he sucked up some brandy, lit the cheroot and opened the window. The cool night air was soothing, and so was the quietness. Most of London was asleep now. He took several determined deep breaths and consciously made his shoulders fall.

He was a big man, bulky, not fat, with a strong face, all seeing eyes, four younger brothers, a fierce mamma of a widowed mother, two ex wives, and a new Italian restaurant business that was starting to look as if it might drown before it had even hit the surface.

And just now the most interesting thing he could do was watch a lean ginger cat stroll along the backyard wall and jump down onto the bins. Bins full of the weekend's rubbish and food waste. The cat disappeared, then yowled loudly.

"Shaddup!" Angelo yelled. The cat yowled again, and before he knew what he was doing, Angelo slung the empty aftershave bottle - the one he had been meaning to throw out all week - from the window towards the cat now strolling along the top of the bins. Instead of another yowl, however, there was a very annoyed:

"Oh! For pity's sake…..!" as the glass bottle hit something soft yet solid and bounced. Angelo watched a hand flash out, catch the bottle and put it quietly in the bin. Then the silhouette of a head come up, and he could now see there was a figure between the bins, in his backyard, scavenging for something.

Even angrier now, Angelo flicked the cheroot out of the window and was down the stairs and through the back door with remarkable speed for such a bulky man. The cat legged it over the wall. The figure that was trying to follow it was grabbed by Angelo who caught the hem of a hoodie, yanked it backwards, then took the shadowy figure he had reeled in more securely by a handful of long dark greasy hair.

The interloper flailed, tried to free itself, but Angelo was bigger and stronger, and angrily shook the figure into submission.

"Gotcha! Bloody little thief! What were you after, raiding my bins like that?"

"Just after a crust…"

The voice was not what Angelo had been expecting. Slurred Cockney was what he had been expecting, rasping Estuary English, even. What he got was rich public school vowels, a voice breaking from tenor to baritone, a slightly amused tone.

For Angelo could see that in the grimy almost skeletal hand were indeed the crusts of three half eaten pizzas he remembered putting into the bin himself.

"What's that, breakfast?"

"The best you can offer me, Mr Grimaldi. In the circumstances."

"How do you know who I am, you little toe-rag?"

"Everyone knows you; head of the family gang of thieves that runs this part of London, you the legit looking front man for the rest of them."

"Right little smart arse, aren't we?" Angelo was tempted to give the boy another shake, and did so. "How did you get into my yard?"

"Well, anyone can get over that wall. Or through that gate. So I did. Your security needs upgrading."

"Cheeky little git."

"Sorry," said the boy, suddenly contrite. "It's just that….your left-overs are pretty good. And….I'm hungry."

"Hmn."

Angelo took the boy by the scruff of his neck and hauled him into the back kitchen, switching on the light. They both blinked in the sudden brightness. Angelo looked properly at what he had caught.

Black hoodie, black jeans, elderly backpack with a blanket rolled inside, expensive trainers that had seen better days. Skinny, dirty and with long dark curly hair, the boy could have been an identikit for any young man living on the street except for that posh accent and the beaten burning look in the strangest pale eyes Angelo had ever seen.

Angelo shoved the boy further inside and locked the door behind him.

"Why are you locking me in? What are you going to do with me?"

The boy's voice rose, his eyes darkened in fear, white spots of tension appearing over his high cheekbones. He backed away, as tight into the corner as he could get.

"Not decided yet," Angelo growled. He was pretty good at frightening people with his silent brooding routine, so he walked through into the main kitchen and let the boy stew. Took down a frying pan, lifted up a bowl, took three eggs and some mushrooms from the fridge, began to chop and beat.

The boy stood pressed in the doorway, watching him silently.

"Why are you still up, anyway? You are usually fast asleep by now."

"Make a habit of raiding my bins, do you? Think you know my routine?"

The boy had the decency to not reply, just ducked his head and fidgeted his feet.

"If you must know….I was trying to do my paperwork. I'm not a business brain. I was struggling for too long. Had given up and just going to bed."

"Legit bookwork a bit hard, is it?"

Angelo shot him a black look that said this problem was really not funny, was actually beyond endurance.

"Sorry…." the boy said. Angelo grunted and continued with his cooking.

By the time he had finished and had slid the mushroom omelette onto a plate, the boy had moved, had gone; shifted silently away from the door. When Angelo looked round for him, somewhat wildly - who knew what homeless lads like that were planning to nick? - he finally spotted him in the restaurant, sitting in front of the ledger and the piles of bills and receipts, drifting them in front of himself then into piles as if playing patience.

"…Sorry…." the boy said again when he felt Angelo's eyes on him. Leant back in the chair, sighed, and looked levelly at Angelo. "Look… I'm not going to thieve anything, and I'm not taking the piss. But do you want me to sort this lot out for you?"

Angelo stood and looked at him for long seconds. Flourished the plate in his right hand. Brought it down in front of the boy.

"Eat this," he ordered. Then grinned. "Eat this first."

Cutlery magicked itself alongside the plate. A glass of water.

"Are you sure? I mean…I can't pay you for the food. I never asked….."

"Shut up and eat," Angelo growled.

He went back into the kitchen to wash the utensils. He could not bear to see how ravenously the boy fell onto the food.

He was a Londoner. He was used to seeing the homeless littering the streets of his city. But he had never been close to a member of the homeless community until now. Like everyone else, he looked away, or guiltily dropped a few coins into a cap or plastic cup and kept walking. And now he wondered: how such a well spoken young man ended up friendless and starving on the streets. And what had happened to him to put him there. And what he did to survive.

As the boy finished eating, Angelo put a large mug of strong sweet tea down by his hand. Took his own mug and sat opposite.

"What's your name?"

The boy looked up at him sharply with a frown wrinkled over his nose and did not answer for a long time. Angelo just kept looking at him and was clearly going to kep on looking until he got an answer.

"Scott," the boy whispered eventually.

"That your real name?"

"No."

"OK, Scott. You seem an honest lad. Well, relatively honest." Angelo quirked a grin. "If you can sort that lot out for me I will be eternally grateful.

"I'm not going to give you actual cash, because I know from the look of you it would be wasted - and waste you - on drugs. But payment in kind, then. So every time you come to do the books you'll get a meal, a hot shower and a go with my washing machine if needed, food to take out with you. And summat else to eat between times if you turn up here. What do you say?"

He watched the boy shudder with some sort of reaction Angelo could not begin to guess the reason for, then look down and away and try to hide his expression.

"You know that is a life saver, do you?" asked the boy, who took a deep breath and thought carefully. "Yes, then. And I will teach you how to do your own book keeping. Properly, that is."

"Deal. But won't that be cutting your nose off to spite your face? Doing yourself out of a job?"

The boy laughed without mirth.

"I don't intend to stay on the streets. I'll get clear of this. But I….." he hesitated. "I can't come the same day, same time. Can't get into a routine. Otherwise he'll find me…take me back…."

"Who's that? Your dad? Guardian? Social worker? Investigating plod?"

"No."

And that was all he would say. But Angelo didn't like the way the boy's eyes darkened before he bent to the paperwork and was silent for an hour or more.

He watched the boy write, work out, make and fill in columns, double check - and finally lean back and stretch.

"All done. Makes sense now. Take a look at what I've done when you get the chance - then when I come back ask if there is something you don't understand. And I've done some notes for you too - things you need to do next. "

Angelo had bundled cold pizza, fresh fruit, packets of breadsticks, a couple of bars of chocolate and some cooked sausages into a bag and handed it to the boy.

"You've saved my life, young Scott. Or whoever you are."

"Not quite saved your life - but you'll sleep easy for a bit, now. Thank you, Mr Grimaldi. I'll be back. A few days."

And he was gone.

Angelo took himself to bed and slept better than he had for weeks. And a pattern was set.

At different times, different days, the boy returned. Settled down at the same table, sat in the near dark after hours and collated Angelo's paperwork and balanced the books. He asked to see the order book, the staff rotas, the menus. Made suggestions and improvements, clever economies.

Once Angelo asked if his own family ran a restaurant, and the boy laughed.

"Hardly! But I understand the principles."

The boy was quiet, almost a wraith, never volunteered information about himself. Sometimes Angelo thought he imagined him. He came and went like a ghost. Even if he arrived in daylight, during opening hours, few people ever saw him. He had one change of clothes - denim blue instead of black - and always had the rucksack with him.

He was swift, efficient, friendly enough but uncommunicative. Weeks along the line, Angelo knew no more about him than he had that first night. But he did know that he was no longer worrying about paperwork, and the new restaurant was starting to gain a regular clientele and make a profit as a result of the bookwork and the advice.

He was about to switch off his bedside lamp late one night when the musical rap pattern he recognised as the boy's rattled the back door. Much later than normal. Angelo was into his dressing gown in a flash and pulling off the bolts.

Scott slipped inside, hoodie up, fists in pockets. He seemed agitated and in a hurry to be inside. And he put his hand up to stop Angelo turning on the main light.

"Side light is fine," he muttered in greeting. "I'll be able to see to do the books."

Angelo did as he was bid and, as had become their habit, he turned away to make tea while the boy sat in his usual place and pulled the paperwork across to himself, setting receipts and till rolls into piles.

In the half light Angelo found himself just watching absently as he waited for the kettle to boil. Found himself looking at the boy's hands, the only things moving; was it just the shadows thrown by the low lighting that made them look so dark and strange tonight? Did they always look like that? And as he concentrated on the boy - whose face remained firmly hidden by the hoodie - he thought he could see bruises….

As he made the tea and waited for it to brew he was sure of it. So when he finally put the mug down by the boy's elbow it was no effort to then lift his empty hand and take the boy by surprise, snatch the hoodie back from the thin pale face.

"No!"

Scott leapt from his chair and it's feet squealed across the floor in protest. He made to run out past Angelo, but the older man was bigger, stronger, more streetwise. He stopped the boy with ease and had him pinned by his biceps against the wall.

He bit back several things he could have said, more he could have shouted. Instead he just looked the lad in the eye and asked:

"Who did this to you, son? And why?"

The boy tucked his head into his chest to try and hide the black eye, the bruised cheeks, the split lip and the bite mark on his neck. He kept his hands down, did not try to fight Angelo, but the grazed knuckles were clear to see.

"Doesn't matter," he mumbled. "Just ignore it."

"Can't do that. You've been done over. And you work for me - in a manner of speaking. And I look after my own."

"Ah, the fabled Italian family loyalty. Well, I can do my bit in that area, too: _omerta._ "

Angelo was suddenly angry. He picked up the boy by the biceps with no effort whatsoever - frightened by the lack of weight and muscle tone he felt beneath his hands - until their eyes were level.

"No, son. Don't try and be clever with me. It don't work. So just tell me, there's a good lad."

The boy sagged. "Let me go, Mr Grimaldi. I'll go - not bother you again - "

"You're not a burglar, but you have clever hands; I reckon you're a pretty good dip; a fine wirer, are you? Only you don't get done over like this for a fumbled hand in a pocket you can pass off as a mistake." Angelo was thoughtful. "You earning, Scott? Good looking lad like you: are you on the game and got done over by a punter?"

He knew he had guessed right: the boy turned bright red, would not meet his eyes, and struggled frantically in his grasp.

"All got a bit rough, did it? Jesus, boy, are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"I didn't know what else….I've been propositioned a lot…I just ..." he sighed, capitulated. "I need the money. It earns. Especially if you can cope with the kinks….."

"Shut up. Sit down and listen to me."

Angelo physically placed his book-keeper down into a chair, wet a tea towel with hot water and soaped it, brought it to him. Scott - if that was his name - buried his face in the warm cleanliness, wiped off blood and sweat and released a long sigh.

"You are not doing this any more."

"I can't afford not to…."

"Yes, you can. Because you are going to work here. Do my books, wash dishes and scrub floors until your hands are raw. I'm doing you no favours. You will work - hard - and you will climb out of this shit. However you got yourself into it."

"I can't," was the anguished whisper. "I mean - thank you - but - I can't."

"Why?"

"If I stand still he'll find me." Angelo was appalled to see a large fat tear escape from Scott's right eye. To be followed by another. The left eye was too hard closed to do anything. "You don't understand. He'll find me, and he'll come, and he'll take me back. And then I'll never be free. He won't let me escape again."

Angelo rocked back on his heels and thought for a moment.

"You escaping white slavery or something?"

"Good as."

The boy dashed the tears from his eyes.

"Yeah?. Well, first things first. We'll get you right and then see what happens next. But you're not going back on the street. Not do …that sort of thing, get hammered like that again."

"I've appalled you, Mr Grimaldi. You're disgusted with me. I'm sorry. I'm just rubbish, don't bother with…."

"Shut up. I'm not being responsible for you getting killed."

You're not…"

"I told you. Shut up. We'll deal with this bloke you're terrified of if and when we have to. Don't worry, Scott."

The boy raised his head. Laughed for a second, hysterically. Bit off the sound. Bent back to the ledgers.

o0o0o0o

He spent the night in the vegetable store with a sleeping bag and an extra pillow. The next day Angelo woke him up to start dishwashing. The rest of the staff either ignored him or immediately accepted his strange appearance and even stranger unexpected presence among them.

Angelo had been right. The boy worked hard - would have even if Angelo hadn't made him. His back and his feet hurt with standing long hours. His hands were red and raw with hot water, cold water and cleaning fluids. He did not complain, however hard Angelo pushed him; and the occasional grin gave the impression he understood Angelo's reasoning: to keep him occupied, and tired, and safe.

So now he slept with a roof over his head - even if it was a tin roof with only three walls and everything smelt of leeks - washed every day and ate meals. There were - finally - signs of trust. Even wages; cash in hand, no bookwork, no officialdom.

Not that he went anywhere to spend it. Angelo was more than aware that, once inside the sanctuary of the restaurant, he would rarely leave it. He always found an excuse for staying inside; another cleaning task, more bookwork, more financial checking.

Sometimes Angelo had a feeling the boy left his shed and disappeared into the night, and sometimes felt there was that sweet indefinable whiff of drugs about him. But if this was true it never affected his behaviour as far as Angelo could tell, and Scott - or whatever his real name was - never said.

Nevertheless, Angelo was starting to worry. One lunchtime he gave his nephew Billy - a waiter who seemed to almost like the boy - £20 and told him to take young Scott down to the market for new jeans and a shirt. Scott protested, but neither Angelo nor Billy took no for an answer. Finally they went to a charity shop and Scott gained a complete new outfit: jeans, leather shoes, shirt and sweater. Shaved, clean and with some judicious hacking at the dark curls, the boy was transformed and putting on some much needed weight.

For the truth was young Scott had quickly become a vital part of the business. Angelo's Mamma liked the boy for his rare gentle smile, his exquisite manners, his usefulness. It was handy to have a pot boy who could not only wash dishes but also translate a variety of customers' languages, compute bills in seconds, wait on table to silver service standard and lay up a table with swift professionalism. Without being taught any of these things. As well as having an instinct for punters who would try to slope out without paying.

In return for being taught book keeping skills and how to produce spread sheets, Angelo started to teach Scott to cook, simple things like frittata, soups, pasta from scratch.

Young Scott entered into the spirit of this, almost laughing and carefree at times, but Angelo would have a jolt of conscience when the lad would say something like "there are other skills I wish you would teach me…." or the like. As if he knew. As if he knew exactly who and what Angelo was.

He would have been happier if the boy's haunted look disappeared, his need to constantly check over his shoulder, scan punters and the street outside the bay fronted window for danger.

But it was only when it was too late did Angelo realise Scott's caution was not the paranoia of the homeless and streetwise but truly essential for his survival.

Late one Sunday evening Angelo and the boy were bent over the paperwork. It had all become much simpler since Scott had been in charge, took less time, was less a trial.

The figures all balanced, and the boy was once more patiently showing Angelo his workings, how to do it himself.

"Does it all make sense now?"

"Yeah. Finally. You're a good teacher. For a youngster."

"If your books are legit, people will think everything else is legit. Simple, really. Remember that."

"What does that mean?"

The boy looked down, twiddled with his pen. "I know you are the only member of your family who tries to go straight. But I also know you are a pretty classy housebreaker. That you go for antiques and jewellery, that you are famous on the street for it."

"No I'm not." Angelo glared his denial.

"Don't feel you have to deny it, especially to me," Scott grinned up at him. "I don't care if that's what you do; I know you only rob from those who can afford it. Not quite Robin Hood, but probably a close cousin. That your mother expects it of you, and you get a lot of pressure from all your family for having this restaurant and trying to be legit - having something worthwhile outside the family business, as it were. That all seems pretty admirable to me."

"How did you know?" Angelo breathed. Because he worked hard to keep the two parts of his life separate. To very much stop other people knowing.

"Same as I know you pay alimony to two ex-wives, and you still love the first one, that you like to play poker. That you are trying to stop smoking and you have bought your Mama a crystal glass vase for Christmas. I observe, I notice. I see things."

"Scott!" Angelo yelped in surprise. Then thought about it, and realised he wasn't surprised at all, not really. Because the boy was unusual. Strange. Old for his years. But hadn't he always known that? Wasn't that why he had done the unthinkable - and trusted someone unknown he had just plucked off the streets?

"Scott," he repeated, more quietly. "Can't you tell me who you are? What you are doing on the streets?"

The boy looked at him levelly, as if man to man. The expression in those pale shuttered eyes was sad but determined.

"I am nobody at all. No-one you want to know. No-one anyone wants to know." He nodded to himself, as if making a decision. "It is time for me to go away, Angelo. I have stayed here too long. "

Angelo felt overwhelmed with his own sadness, even as he realised this day had been always going to arrive; that Scott could not stay here forever, just because he was making his own, Angelo's, life and work easier, simpler.

"Why?" he asked simply.

The boy smiled without mirth.

"Not your problem. What you don't know won't hurt you. I wasn't going to tell you, going to just disappear, Angelo. But I wanted to say…."

He never finished the sentence, and Angelo never learnt what the boy was going to say. Because there was suddenly a loud, demanding knocking on the front door. They both jumped as the door rocked on it's hinges, and two tall silhouettes could be seen pressed against the glass.

The boy Angelo knew as Scott leapt to his feet, eyes wild, and running for the back door even as he was pushing up and away from the table.

And as the front door gave way under a hefty shoulder, another man emerged through the back door and caught the boy even as he changed direction and bolted for the stairs to Angelo's flat.

Angelo stood holding a chair by the back rail, brandishing it as a weapon, unsure as to what to do next. The scene froze.

One of the men coming through the front door, and the man who had emerged through the back and was holding young Scott clear of the floor in a full body check, were high quality heavies: not the police but possibly high grade gangland, ex forces or secret service, Angelo thought..

But the third man, now entering through the front door, was something else.

A tall, slim man with a furled umbrella and wearing a 500 guinea three piece suit. Dark red prematurely thinning hair in an old fashioned short back and sides, a patrician nose, sharp blue eyes, eyes thinned and staring with something like anger, yet with a remarkable aura of stillness and power for such a young man. Mid twenties, Angelo judged, and with a manner than was already long used to command.

He looked Angelo over as if considering his fitness to be scraped from his shoe, dismissed him and waved a languid hand.

"For goodness' sake, put him down, Hartman. It is extremely inelegant, and you look as if you are juggling spare limbs."

Upper class accent, perfect enunciation, languid command.

The back door man put the boy carefully down onto his feet, kept his hands half raised as if ready to stop the boy from bolting again. Scott gave him a dismissive glare, pulled his shoulders back and rose defiantly to his full height.

"Going to say hello, are we?" The tall young man in command asked calmly.

The boy glared at him, but did not speak.

"Sulking already? How utterly predictable. And childish."

"Go away. Leave me alone."

There was a wobble in the boy's voice that the other man ignored.

"Do please put that chair down, Mr Grimaldi. You really don't intend to attack anyone with it, now do you?"

So Angelo put the chair down. But had to ask:

"Who are you? What are you doing here? Why are you targeting the lad?"

"He is not a _lad_ " - the supercilious voice curled around the word with distaste - "he is a minor and a runaway. And probably a felon. He has things to do with his life and expectations to meet. And it will be no surprise to you, I am sure, to learn than washing dishes is not it."

The final consonant was popped out with ferocity and disdain.

"Don't you _dare_ turn on Angelo! It's not his fault I'm here." The boy took a step forward, fists clenched, but with tears of anger and frustration now pouring unheeded from his eyes.

"No. It is yours. You are a fool. You always are. And I am sick of trying to pick up your pieces for you."

"Then don't. Leave me in pieces. I want to be in pieces."

"No, Sherlock. Giving up on you is far too easy. I am not doing that, and neither are you."

"You've got the wrong person, haven't you? His name is Scott - not _Sherlock!_ "

Angelo shouted the unaccustomed name with something like disdain, trying to pick his way through this mess to sanity and normality. Surely all this was some sort of mistake?

The man in the suit turned to him.

"I do indeed have the right person, Mr Grimaldi. But thank you for your concern. As he seems not to have introduced himself to you properly, let me do so. This is William Sherlock Scott Holmes." He paused and then added the kicker: "My little brother."

"Still no excuse to bully and kidnap him," Angelo pointed out.

"I am doing neither. I am his legal guardian and now I am taking him home."

He flickered a gesture to his two minions, who grasped an arm each and started to manhandle the struggling boy out of the restaurant.

Angelo stepped forward protectively. But was stopped by the umbrella tip pushed quietly but firmly into his shoulder.

"No," said the man who claimed to be Scott's - Sherlock's - brother. "I don't think so, Mr Grimaldi. With a criminal record as long as yours, I really don't think it would be a good idea to be accused - by me - of assault, threatening behaviour, grievous bodily harm towards a minor you have been keeping captive on your premises and subjecting to slave labour. At the very least."

"But I haven't…." Angelo's voice rose to a wail in protest at the unfairness and the wilful misinterpretation of the facts. "That's not it. That's not it at all!"

"No, Angelo. Leave it." The boy spoke with strength and purpose. Met his eyes with maturity and acceptance despite the tear stained face. "There's nothing you and I can do against my brother. If it helps you, let me assure you that _he_ thinks he is helping. Looking after me. Doing his best for me."

"Doesn't look like it to me," Angelo grumbled.

"Nor me. But that is a cross I have to bear." There was resignation in Sherlock's face now. He smiled at the older man. "I will be OK. Don't worry."

"What will happen to you?"

The younger brother slanted a look at the elder. Who returned his look with no expression on his face whatsoever.

"I assume I will be sent to a psychiatric unit, locked up and assessed. Treated for drug abuse and thoroughly punished for attempting to take control of my own life and being who I want to be. I will be looked after terribly nicely and no harm will come to me. Except in my own mind. I daresay I shall then be sent to university to do my degree and will be, as they say, 'kept an eye on.' Could be worse, you might think."

Angelo opened his mouth to reply, but was forestalled by the young man with the authority.

"My little brother has been lost and on the run for six months. Can you imagine how upsetting that is, Mr Grimaldi? Especially when you know the sort of despicable things he has been doing to survive? So I am now taking him home. Where he will be clean and safe and looked after."

"And out of my mind with despair and wrongness…" said the boy , almost under his breath.

Despite the harsh grip he was in, he manoeuvred a hand to Angelo, who took it.

"Whatever happens to me now, I shall see you again." he said. And Angelo believed him. For he saw the tears standing in the boy's eyes and now refusing to fall.

"I know, lad. And I'll miss you."

"Do desist from this empty sentimentality," The elder brother grasped the younger by the shoulder and turned him. The boys hands rose, almost as if to brush the controlling hand away, then thought better of it. "Accept defeat with good grace for once."

The boy turned and walked out of the front door of the restaurant without looking back, flanked by the two security men.

The elder Holmes brother lifted his hand to the door, paused in the doorway.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Grimaldi. I hope you will understand when I say I hope neither I nor Sherlock ever see you again."

"Well, I hope you can sleep at night," Angelo snapped.

"That is a luxury I never even think about. Good day."

And he was gone. They all were.

Angelo dropped back down into his chair, shaken by events, only too aware of the now empty chair opposite him. Then he looked down at the black spidery writing that filled so many pages of his ledger. Closed the book with a snap.

He hoped the supercilious elder brother was wrong. That Scott would be back someday. He liked the boy, and would miss him. He sighed and poured himself a large brandy.

o0o0o0o

"I've a customer who wants to complain to the owner."

Some things, Angelo thought, never changed. There was always one punter who felt the customer was always right and the restaurateur always wrong. He sighed, put on his best professional face and promised himself he would not lose his temper this time….and walked forwards to the table in the bay window.

The tall elegant young man in the trendy suit was tapping his fingers with impatience on the table. All Angelo could see from the rear as he approached was a long lean frame, bony shoulders under the close fit of a bespoke tailored suit, a far from trendy head of wild dark curls.

Smart arse banker? Futures dealer? PR front man? Someone with more money than manners if the cost of that suit was anything to go by? So what was his problem going to be if not just arrogance? He had cooked the meal for table 12 himself, and it had been perfect…..

"Yes, Sir? You have a problem, I understand? My name is Angelo Grimaldi, owner of this establishment and head chef. How may I help you?"

He reached the table, stood by it. Looked into a thin clever face with high cheekbones and a hard line of mouth. And startling unusual grey green eyes.

"Ah, yes. Mr Grimaldi. The quality and the freshness of the food here is not of the standard one might expect. Far too good. But I really think your standard of dishwashing could be much improved."

Angelo heard the honeyed baritone of the voice, glared at the young man. Frowned. Was this a joke? But there was something…..? Familiar? Could he put his finger on it?

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't understand?"

"Oh, Angelo! Have you forgotten me? Your book keeping must really have improved!"

The customer was laughing now. Smiling at him.

Angelo felt his knees go weak and he flopped into the seat opposite.

"Strike me!" he exclaimed. "I never though….never see you again…..Scott? I mean - Sherlock? Is it? After all this time! What in hell are you doing here?"

"Having a rather good lunch. My compliments to the chef."

Angelo took a deep breath and just looked. The lanky boy with the haunted eyes had turned into a tall and elegant young man. Five years had given the boy poise and arrogance and a certain dark charisma. Maturity and style. And edge.

They smiled at each other.

"Five years, Scott. Where have you been? And what happened to you?"

"Sherlock," the boy corrected. It was going to be almost impossible to think of him as anything but 'the boy' even now. "Sherlock Holmes."

"As I said…." Angelo replied.

"I owe you twenty quid," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand into a pocket and producing a note. "You gave me twenty quid for clothes. I'm returning the loan."

"Thank you. Twenty quid wouldn't go far in buying the sharp gear you're wearing now."

"Nevertheless…..I still owe you. First chance I've had to come back and say so."

"Does this mean he's let you go?"

"My brother, you mean? " Sherlock pulled a face. "Not exactly."

"So what can I do for you, lad?"

Scott - Sherlock - leant forward with a grin.

"I have a career plan," he said. "I've done the university stuff. But I've decided I don't want to be a chemist - far too boring. So I'm going to be a detective."

"What? You? A copper?"

"Me? Wouldn't really suit me, now would it? Marching, uniform, calling people 'sir'? No. A consulting detective. Putting the world to rights all on my own. Solving puzzles, solving crimes. Excitement and adventure and being at the sharp end."

"Sure you don't want to go back to being my dishwasher?" Angelo asked. "So what do you want?"

The boy who was now a man leant forward conspiratorially with a strange light in his eye.

"I want you to teach me to pick locks and crack safes."

Whatever Angelo had been expecting, it wasn't that. So he spluttered a bit, and waved his hands about. But thought about it.

"You'll have me shot!"

"I need the skills, Angelo. And what's more, I know you have them."

The man grinned, a cheeky, conspiratorial grin. Angelo suddenly saw the boy he had known. And he grinned back.

"All right, son. You're on."

So twice a week for six months - after the restaurant had closed - they reverted to their old routine. Sherlock would come in and balance the books, make suggestions to streamline or improve the business, and Angelo would teach him tricks of his other trade.

The superior skills and analyses of a Peterman - the elite of the criminal world, the men who broke into safes. How to scrub and pick locks; how to use the right tools or adapt others. How to open and enter windows, move silently up stairs, frisk a room while the occupants slept. The hiding places people used and thought were secret.

Sherlock Holmes proved an adept pupil and - Angelo had to admit it - they had fun. Especially when he took Sherlock out on the rob with him. Which was when the boy also learnt about stealing to order, backing his hunches, learning the most desirable objects to steal, how to tell fake from proper - and how to read and even create forgeries.

Finally he took Sherlock to break into a bungalow in Finchley. The double locks were diabolical. Every time Sherlock leant back and shook his head, Angelo urged him on.

"Quiet and calm, lad. Keep trying. The people who live here know their security. If you can crack this one, you can crack any door."

Finally the heavy door with it's unusual deadlocks opened to sighs of relief from both of them. And at that moment the lights inside snapped on, there were shouts and cheers. Sherlock stepped back, pale and shocked. And it was only then Angelo clapped him on the shoulder, laughing:

"You should see your face!"

He realised he had been fooled as well as tested; that the bungalow belonged to Angelo's mother, and all his brothers - Lorenzo, Franco, Mario, Leonardo - were there to see the achievement of their big brother's protégé and to celebrate with red wine and pasta.

So now he pushed Sherlock away and told him he had now been taught all he himself knew. And it was time to go out into the world and use his new skills for good, from now on. They laughed together and with the family and just celebrated.

Life was never quite the same after that.

Every few weeks Sherlock would appear for a meal. As an afterthought he would check Angelo's paperwork, sometimes tip him off about a member of staff who was fiddling the VAT returns or the tips.

Sometimes he would appear at the end of a working day and they would share a pot of coffee and Sherlock would tell a tale of using one of the skills Angelo had taught him, and what had happened next. They laughed together, even though Angelo was never quite sure about the truth of the tales he was hearing. No-one could do all those things, now could they?

And yet the boy grew in maturity and heart and confidence. Angelo saw the strength and the arrogance and the fire grow in him, and was proud. Remembering the wreck he had known before.

So they stayed friends, regardless.

Until the day after Angelo's biggest housebreaking job for years.

Mamma had been complaining he was going too straight - getting out of practise, losing his nerve and his skill. That his brothers needed his support and some ready cash for a holiday.

So Angelo, against his better nature, cased a smart house in Hampstead that held a huge collection of Bernard Leach and Lucy Rie pottery, a couple of Modigliano's and some Jacobean silver. And came home with them all, market for all guaranteed. All less than an hour in his hands. And all the cash his Mamma had wanted for her other boys.

It was the day after that it all went to pieces.

Three police cars roared up to the restaurant, all blues and twos and screaming brakes.

Angelo only started to get worried when he saw three of the coppers wore kevlar vests and were tooled up for action, two with Brownings, one with an AK47. That was far too strong a reaction for an art theft.

"Come on, Mr Lestrade. You know murder's not my M.O.," he protested to the silver haired and grim looking detective inspector he had known for more years than he liked to remember. "A nasty triple murder in Acton? Me?"

"Your old credit card dropped on the doorstep - obviously used to crack the front door lock. Your fingerprints on a glass on the coffee table. Your restaurant's match book in the ash tray," Lestrade recited. "Makes you the chief suspect."

Angelo suffered a moment of total panic to follow the total disbelief. Breaking and entering was one thing. Murder of a complete family was another.

"I don't even smoke! It's a fit up!" he shouted. "And I'd never be as stupid as to leave all those clues!"

"Your family has had a feud with the Marinello family for years - generations. Everything points to you," Lestrade said with dark deliberation.

They had been sitting in the closed restaurant talking - interviewing - for almost an hour when the front door opened and a head appeared round it.

"Good morning, Lestrade. Good morning, Angelo. A little problem for me, I gather?"

Sherlock Holmes stuck his head round the door looking relaxed enquiring and possibly a bit smug.

"What are you doing here?" demanded Lestrade.

"Billy rang; said we had a little problem."

"I'm being fit up for a murder, that's what," Angelo grumbled. "All crime round here gets laid at the feet of the Grimaldi's. And that is not always the case."

Angelo sulked, and grumbled, and objected at going down to the station with Lestrade and his minions.

Sherlock Holmes hissed into Lestrade's ear:

"Give us a moment, Graham?"

And Lestrade, being the decent man he was, grinned briefly, muttered "No more…." and turned his back.

Sherlock hummed his thanks, leant over the table, gripped Angelo by his biceps and rapped out:

"Speak quickly. Tell me. Where you really were, what you were doing."

Angelo's mind went blank fo a moment. He was transfixed, like a rabbit in car headlights, by the sheer charisma of the man in front of him, the power of the strength of those laser eyes on his.

No! This is Scott! The skinny kid who had washed dishes, done bookwork, slept in his shed! This couldn't be real! This wasn't happening!

"Pull yourself together, Angelo. Talk to me. Who knew where you were going to be? Who fitted you up? Who had a grudge against this family?

"I…..I…." he heard himself stuttering. The hands on his arms shook him roughly. Grounded him.

"Anyone who wanted, I suppose. Booked Gianni to stand in for me in the kitchens weeks ago; anyone could know that. Mamma had said I was going to be 'her boy' last night - and everyone in the Italian community would know what that meant. I didn't hide or anything, so I guess anyone could have followed me. Time, opportunity. Yes."

"Oh, great. A lamb to slaughter. So is this a local feud?"

"I reckon. The Marinello's had their enemies - moneylenders always keen to get their interest, you know? I was casing a _toffken_ in Hampstead. Nice and easy little rumble. So I did the place while I was there."

"What was the haul?"

"Modern art, collector pottery, Jacobean silver. Fenced through Jacob Kreizer. He'll confirm, as it's you."

"So what about the obviously planted evidence you had been at the murder scene?"

"Must have chucked the old credit card without cutting it up. You know what I'm like with paperwork and stuff, Sherlock!" his voice was pleading, and the consulting detective shook his head. "The glass could have been lifted from here - like everywhere else we have breakages, law of averages. And every pub and restaurant expects to get some things nicked: ashtrays, teaspoons, beer mats…matchbooks," he added pointedly.

"Hmn."

Sherlock Holmes dropped his head and thought a moment.

"Leave this to me. I take it you would prefer to be banged up for twelve to eighteen months rather than thirty years? Yes, thought so." He clapped Angelo Grimaldi on the shoulder. "No problem. Leave this to me. I'll get you out of this."

And to cut a long story short - he did.

Angelo went from two weeks on remand charged with murder to instantly out on bail charged with housebreaking. He never did find out exactly how Sherlock Holmes investigated both crimes, proved Angelo guilty of one, and thus with an alibi for not doing the other…then establishing a disgruntled and hard up cousin had killed the Marinello family to save repaying a loan he could not afford to return, meanwhile exorcising some resentment of a slight by Angelo the victim could not even remember.

By the time he appeared in court, heard his former dishwasher provide a character witness, and was bundled into Pentonville (again) Angelo's head was spinning. Every time he thought about Sherlock Holmes he was grinning, however.

"Have you heard of the great man Sherlock Holmes?" he would ask everyone he met. And then boast: "He cleared my name!"

And he would laugh. He even said it to Sherlock himself, once. Sherlock had pulled a face and just said: "…cleared it a bit…" and Angelo had laughed and hugged him.

"We're not doing _that_ again!" Sherlock had grumbled, mock serious.

But Angelo never stopped boasting how his former dishwasher got him off a murder charge, out of prison, reputation restored.

So what was nine months with good behaviour between friends? Because while he was away nephew Gianni took over the cooking, Sherlock Holmes took over the book keeping, just like the old days, and ex wife Rosa managed the business.

And everything turned out all right in the end. Disaster was averted, and Angelo never did get labelled a murderer.

In fact the thing that had always worried him most - because as soon as Sherlock Holmes had poked his head round the door that first day, Angelo know everything was going to be all right - was the problem of how he was ever going to repay Sherlock Holmes for his help.

He had refused any sort of financial payment, declined free meals forever, lifted his eyebrows in alarm at the threat of a celebratory party.

Angelo was getting desperate for something he could do to show his appreciation.

It was then he thought of the old days. When he was teaching the young Sherlock the tricks of the trade. His trade. Tricks that made him even more the highly accomplished detective he had become. Because he not only fought for justice, but knew crime from the wrong side, as well as the right side of the fence. And how to use that very special view he had from the bridge between the two.

So Angelo decided to commission a gift. A special little gift. Why, his mamma even helped, constructing a little thing of plush purple velveteen beauty in which to contain his gift.

Of course Angelo was in prison at the time. So he had to get Billy to deliver the little parcel to Baker Street for him.

And Billy had gone prison visiting to tell the tale to his Uncle Angelo, a huge grin on his face. And it was really as if Angelo had been there himself to see what had happened when his gift was bestowed.

" _I_ _handed it to him, just as you told me, Uncle Angelo, He stood in front of the window and put his violin down on the desk, and took his little parcel from me._

' _For me?' he asked, as if surprised, and he sounded like a little boy who had never heard of Christmas. 'But people don't get me….things.' So I said some people did, and this was a thank you from my Uncle Angelo._

 _So he unwrapped the paper, and he took out the little rolled up thing Great Aunt Rosa made. And he just looked at it, and rolled it in his hands, and asked: 'What is it?' And I said: 'Open it and see,' and he said: 'Can I?' and I nodded and he did._

" _And he very slowly took out the screws and the rooks and the dubs and the bettys and the folding magnifying glass. The tiny hacksaw and the measuring chain and the pocket scalpel. The propelling pencil and the tiny magi torch, the roll of cheese wire. And he laid them all out on the desk. And he looked down at them, just touching them all dainty like with his fingers, for a long time._

" _Then he looked up at me and he smiled. You know that funny little smile he doesn't do very often? And he whispered to me - very low, very soft: 'Your uncle is a very bad man, Billy. Very bad indeed.'_

 _And then he laughed. So I laughed. And he shook his head. And then he said:_

" _I can never repay him for this."_

 _And I said: "I think that is what he was trying to say to you with this gift -_ he _can never repay_ you _.' And he laughed again._

" _So I left him with his new toys. And now he tells me he uses them every day and could not be without them."_

And Angelo was only then content.

A thin ginger cat and an empty after shave bottle had started a chain of events that had saved a life. Or maybe two. Angelo had never been any good at maths. But the end result was just the same. Precious, and special and very Sherlock Holmes.

And Angelo still insisted on a candle on the table, a glass of white wine and meals on the house. And Sherlock accepted all three with little shake of his head and a smile.

Because both of them knew that although Sherlock could never repay the food and the wine, he would always repay the trust and the friendship and never forget the look and the taste of that very first mushroom omelette.

Some of the greatest joys of life, even to Sherlock Holmes, were always the simplest.

END

 **Author's notes:**

Toe-rag - derelict young person, beggar; from the days when beggars wore rags on their toes and feet because they could not afford shoes.

Plod - English slang for a policeman

Omerta - Italian Mafia word for silence/ criminal code of silence

Dip - pickpocket.

Fine wirer - very skilful pickpocket

MO - Modus Operandi; method of working, and in criminals as good as a fingerprint for identification.

Toffken - criminal name for a well to do house; literally, a toff's house

Screw - skeleton key.

Rook - jemmy; for prising open things

Dubs and bettys - picklocks

"

"


End file.
